


Put Out, Like a Fire

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (McDonald gets cucked The Fic), (implied) - Freeform, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Flirty Goodsir Rights, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Melodrama, Oral Sex, Romance, Stanley if you just used your EMOTION WORDS youd save Goodsir so much grief, Tenderness, and a bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: What happens on Erebus stays on Erebus. Until it doesn't.Or:In which Goodsir stages a seduction, without prior knowledge of Stanley's relationship status.
Relationships: Alexander McDonald/Stephen S. Stanley, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Alexander McDonald, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Stephen S. Stanley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Put Out, Like a Fire

**Author's Note:**

> My alternate title for this was "Dr. Peddie Whomst?"
> 
> BIG thanks to the Terrebus Doctors Stans on twitter who listened to me whinge abt this ad nauseum and were so supportive. I hope you can find enjoyment in my humble contribution.
> 
> Written for Terror Rarepair Week 2021

Harry Goodsir was often misplaced in the minds of his peers as a man of simple constitution. He never approached anything with outright anger if he could help it, however, he understood conflict as a natural fact of life and if it was required to move forward, to find truth and meaning, he would pursue it. With a life of practice Goodsir had come to savor a challenge. Why else would he have entered his chosen fields of biology and anatomy, if not to struggle daily with the persistent incomprehensibility of that which surrounded him? Even with tomes of knowledge to draw upon, every diagnosis and treatment was a puzzle, for an organism could experience myriad ails, symptoms expressed upon bodies infinitely unique. Every act of medicine was a struggle, but one in which you respected and admired the opponent as ardently as you desired to overpower them.

For Goodsir, that tenacious zeal to understand, to strip a mystery down so he might attend to it, did not end at his professional life. So, it was perhaps an act of Providence that he found himself in close quarters with one Stephen Samuel Stanley and, despite his better judgement, Goodsir found himself enamored with the Head Surgeon of Erebus. By all rights he should leave the man to his precious solitude, that which he bemoaned being deprived of by Goodsir’s presence, but Stanley was as inscrutable as the textbooks Goodsir had read and consequently painfully alluring. He was tall, leveraged his size to tower like a Titan when he wanted to act imposing, but more often than not he shrunk down to fit into the cramped skeletons of he ship, folding himself inward like a mollusk: washed up, hard exterior, and encrusted with enough salt to burn. Goodsir wanted to pry him apart. There was softness within he suspected. Or at least something alive.

Stanley’s speech and manner were dry as an ancient book. Overused, over exposed, brittle, but dedicated to serving its function until the last pages fell out. Stanley was brusque, but his examination and practice thorough, skilled, and drawn from the latest schools of thought. He did not leave anything to chance if he could help it. Goodsir admired the quality; even when bedside manner was lacking.

Goodsir took to watching Stanley like he was an exotic creature. He was not like the regal elephantine Sir John, nor a preening bird of paradise like Commander Fitzjames, nor one of the playful wolfish Lieutenants, but perhaps a lion, an emperor who ruled by insouciant frowns. Stanley was the most active in the mornings. He spent an hour on deck, smelling the air, large nostrils flared as he scrutinized the horizon until he could spot Terror. Locked on the target, steely eyes simply watched as their sister ship rolled in their wake. All attempts to engage him were ignored; Goodsir had tried. He attempted simple pleasantries and earnest questioning, then silently standing beside him for the duration, hoping to urge Stanley to initiate out of politeness. In an act of exhibitionism, he had even taken the time to do his specimen hauling at dawn, making a racket, inciting the cries and whoops from the men on watch excited to see some sport interrupt the monotony. But Goodsir had no such luck in distracting Stanley with spectacle. Always, the Head Surgeon completed his vigil and turned with a rough heel, face disinterested and unchanged, and removed himself to the Sickbay. Goodsir wished to know what Stanley looked to find out at sea.

He cannot help but take umbrage at Stanley’s prickliness. His reaction to other men, the ones who actively threw disdain back at Stanley, it made sense, but Goodsir knew he had only ever been at worst cordial and at best friendly. Goodsir knew his own character enough to see its flaws, that effusiveness, that genuine optimism that others called naive, but he had always felt a sense of pride at being personable. That Stanley, with his unending catalog of Goodsir’s faults, will not even concede this fact, it did smart. Still, he was not under the illusion that Stanley found him abhorrent. On rare occasions, when Goodsir had been especially helpful, Stanley deigned a nod and one solitary hum emanated from his throat causing a soupy sensation to blossom in Goodsir’s gut. He owed the rarity of these occurrences to the intensity of his reaction, for it was ridiculous that they should cause such spring in his step. Chasing crumbs like a pigeon ought to tire him out, but each taste only made him desire more. The intoxication of Stanley’s approval sometimes carried even into the night when he was alone with one hand sliding quick against his sex and the other muffling his groans. He wished it were Stanley’s hands, they’d be ever so sure, large as they are they would pin him like a butterfly. Spread out in all his beauty for the man to manipulate and array at his whim.

It is a few months into the voyage when Goodsir begins to suffer. The fantasies, once his own private delights, start to bleed into the daytime hours and they appear with no sense of convenience or predictability. He might be palpating a patient’s throat while Stanley watches from behind and there would be the slightest pressure of the other man on his back, incidental brush of fabric no doubt, but Goodsir blinks and in his vision Stanley has him bent over, crying out and thrashing with pleasure. Their patient remains, naturally transfixed by the height of Goodsir’s passion, because Goodsir will be ever so good, ever so effusive in his joy at being impaled on the good Doctor’s cock. He is plagued by these visions. He is a piece of rope that if allowed to fray any further will no longer be fit for use. This will not do.

In search of relief, Goodsir starts to experiment. Curiosity is in his nature, a blessing and a curse, depending on who you asked. For as impractical as they are, he likes these fantasies, revels in the excitement they bring to his standard days. Even in the confined space of the Sickbay, Goodsir tries to move more closely to Stanley, orbiting him until the proper opening appears: an occasion to place his hand alongside Stanley’s or to lean forward more than needed to best display the pull of his trousers over his backside or to exhale, play at being exhausted by a long day, enough to let out a whimper more suitable to a bedroom’s other uses.

Most remarkable of all is Stanley does not abrade him for these transgressions. In Goodsir’s imagination Stanley is tormented by him. It is thrilling to imagine Stanley similarly afflicted. Is the twitching in his brow one of frustration or concealed lust? Will Stanley’s facade shatter the moment he is in his berth, so overwhelmed by the prospect of using Goodsir’s body that he cannot stop from harshly taking a hand to his cock despite all medical advice against self-abuse? And it will not be enough, it must not be enough, Stanley must crave more, for Goodsir would certainly give more. But, as Goodsir contemplates this scenario while he slides a clothed thigh against Stanley as he passes, outwardly Stanley makes no reaction. Perhaps he is a man of few lustful inclinations and primed by society to be attuned towards women so he cannot see Goodsir’s game. It does not matter; a man of Goodsir’s leanings is accustomed to having his teasing ignored. Coldness is one of the better outcomes, far better than disgust or violence, so Goodsir persists and finds minute joy in his one-sided flirtations.

Until the day when the Sickbay is devoid of any patients and Goodsir is ecstatic to have more freedom. He is bold, approaches where Stanley, leans over him, head turned coyly. Goodsir plays at reading the book in Stanley’s lap over the mountainous incline of his shoulder, he breathes lightly on Stanley’s cheek and licks at his own lips, thoroughly, noisily, obscenely. He savors the idea of breaching that miniscule space and laving across the other man’s skin. Might then Stanley grasp his hair and-

“You’re being improper.”

“How so?” Goodsir asks, distantly hears the syrupy slide of his own voice, but for the rush of blood in his ears. He bats his eyelashes and triumphs at the sharp intake of breath from the other doctor. A signal, finally. Stanley slams the book shut and jerks back to glare directly at him. Goodsir shivers, taken by the instinct to lie on his back and submissively present his stomach like an animal, but he does not back away. Instead he keeps his body hanging over Stanley’s, curled like a question mark.

“I refer to these juvenile antics of yours. Do not think me a fool. What is it that you want, Mr. Goodsir?” Stanley asks, as if the junior honorific could ward off unwanted advances, as if through force of will he could mold sound into a barrier against the sin of Goodsir’s tenacious attention.

He is exposed. He may as well press for the most positive outcome. “Whatever you want, Dr. Stanley.”

“I want?”

Supposition. Goodsir does not reply. He lets Stanley savor the conundrum before him. Goodsir cannot say he comprehends whatever compunctions Stanley currently fights, for while he has experience of denying himself pleasure, he has never denied himself the wanting of it. No sense in it.

“I want,” Stanley repeats, but there is no question to it this time.

Acceptance.

Goodsir expects it, but still cannot help the victorious groan that leaves him as Stanley hauls him about the waist and forward into a firm kiss. Broad hands are solid and purposeful, like he imagined, but more so, transcendent in their physicality as they grope at his body. His arms are around Stanley’s neck, stretched uncomfortably, but worth it to provide space for Stanley to caress and pull at his clothes, the pressure yet not enough, he craves the sensation of skin on skin. He squirms helplessly in Stanley’s grasp and moans into the kiss, hoping to urge the other man to more action.

“Stop that.” Stanley spins and slams Goodsir against the wall, the force causes the bottles to rattle on their shelves, weak protests against the debauchery they are sure to witness. Goodsir giggles reflexively until Stanley admonishes with a sharp pinch in the space between buttocks and thigh and all his mirth transforms into a strangled moan.

“You’re an indecent man,” Stanley says, voice level and unwavering, “parading about like a filthy little alley bitch.” Goodsir makes a choking noise in protest cut off by Stanley’s grip on his throat.

“No, don’t try and argue the point,” a knee between his thighs, friction urging him to hardness, “your body speaks enough.” Stanley uses his hand to drag Goodsir’s head to side, exposing his neck to be mouthed at. Goodsir pants, feverish in his own lust and the hot weight of the other man. Then Stanley’s hand is on his member and he pulses with each slide and press of thumb at slit, leaks copiously as a waterfall.

“Messy little hussy,” Stanley says with the detachment he reserves for reciting Latin. Goodsir keens and floods Stanley’s fingers with another spurt of pre-cum. The added lubrication creates a symphony of slick vulgarities, as skin slides against skin, echoing in the rafters. 

“Oh, oh, oh-” Goodsir cries and the persistent jerk of Stanley’s wrist has him hurtling towards his crisis with frightening speed. He claws at Stanley’s shoulders to warn him, but the doctor is only incentivized to press closer, and Goodsir moves his head to look into Stanley’s eyes, focused intently on his face, and he’d expected something sadistic or lascivious, but instead finds a startlingly bare look of fascination.

He comes with a howl, stifled by Stanley’s mouth he twists and sobs, twitches into Stanley’s palm. Once the initial shock is over, Stanley backs away as Goodsir trembles against the wall, still gasping, and chasing the stars from his vision. Stanley sits back in his chair, whatever Goodsir had seen before is gone, but he doesn’t mind, so enraptured is he by the culmination of weeks of his desire.

“Come here,” Stanley commands and spreads his thighs and hands. His gaze is more guarded now, almost wary, and at odds with the roughness of his voice and the significant hardness protruding proudly. It is a supreme obelisk to lust and Goodsir will praise him like the dutiful acolyte he is. His mouth waters and he stumbles forwards, in his eagerness tripping to catch himself on Stanley’s knee as he sinks to the ground. He noses at the join between the other man’s thighs delights in the spasm of muscles there. Strong as a horse. Goodsir will put Stanley’s legs to good use.

“Must I do all the work? Take it out.” Goodsir obeys the order and removes Stanley’s length. Proportionate to the man it is perhaps conventional, but Goodsir is a small man, hot in his hand it is long and broad and within Goodsir’s mouth it stretches his palate into burning bliss. He cannot take it all in. A pity he attempts to compensate for with eagerness of tongue and sucking his cheeks into the tightest glove he can. It is a tremendous effort all the same and saliva pools under his tongue, spilling down over his chin, leaving a pool on the floor.

“I would say I am surprised by this behavior, but that would be a lie. Overindulgence should be a sin easily curbed.” These are tall words from a man currently being serviced, whose voice is ever so slightly thinned with effort to speak past mounting pleasure. Goodsir’s breath hitches and he whines around the mouthful. His own meager cock twitches again where it lays soft against his thigh. It will be some time until he can rise again, but Goodsir wishes it weren’t so, wishes he could remain hard for Stanley to manipulate as he should see fit, so he could come a thousand times from Stanley’s hands, Stanley’s cock. He raises his hand to aid his work, bobbing along the shaft, until Stanley’s hand seizes at his forehead and nails digging painfully into his scalp. Stanley comes with a grunt. The bitterness of Stanley’s seed transmuted by lust into the sweetest nectar, Goodsir gulps greedily, and sputters in protest as Stanley removes his cock. Now the only sound is their chests heaving, their breath stuttering back to normal. Goodsir lays his head against Stanley’s thigh, relaxing into a satiated smile. Stanley taps his knuckles knowingly against Goodsir’s lips.

“Well, I suppose you are more useful than I anticipated.”

It is a most delicious pastime. The expected inconsistency of the duties leaves their schedules and movements free of scrutiny. At least daily he finds Stanley’s cock in his mouth or his own in Stanley’s hand and each time he comes as hard as he did the first.

The night he slips into Stanley’s berth for the first time he is surprised to learn that Stanley does not sleep horizontally. Standardized beds must be the bane of the poor man’s existence. Where the berth fails as a place of rest, it succeeds at being the perfect place for Goodsir to be pressed onto his hands and knees while Stanley stands behind him, shoving his hard length into the greedy suction of Goodsir’s body, until Goodsir’s limbs give out and Stanley has to hold him upright.

“Harder, oh, harder, please,” he begs and Stanley groans in pleasure and frustration, but grips his hips tighter and angles to punch into him with more vigor that Goodsir feels he may black out for all the air he can barely breath between gasps. Afterwards, he lays face down, dignity forgotten for the fulfilling sensation of semen dripping along his thighs.

Above him, Stanley sniffs, and Goodsir finds it funny that a man should be so disgusted by the results of his own frenzied copulation. If Stanley did not want a mess he should just not fuck, but god forbid he be subjected to that even worse imposition.

“This is my bed.”

“Can’t move. Not yet.” It is true, he feels gelatinous. Stanley sighs in concession (for he must be aware of how taxing their activities are), and climbs over him to shuffle onto the mattress. Then Goodsir is lifted, folded, and pulled into the confines of Stanley’s lap so his head rests against Stanley’s chest. Goodsir likes this, likes to hear his beating heart, a reminder of Stanley’s humanity. The blanket is pulled over them both up the shoulder blades.

“Twenty minutes.”

“Mhmm.” He fully intends to keep to the time, but cannot help falling into post-coital sleep. When he awakes there is a tender hand stroking along the line of his hair. When he shifts it falls away, but Goodsir remembers.

He endeavors that they should fuck in Stanley’s berth more often. There is a good deal more privacy to it and ease when they don’t have to think of straightening themselves fast in fear of another patient. That is his reasoning and Stanley agrees. And each time Stanley lets him stay longer. The fourth time he falls asleep when he wakes, that hand is no longer drawn away, but remains upon Goodsir’s brow, even when shuffles to make Stanley aware he is conscious. Stanley says nothing of it, but this is enough, more than Goodsir could have dreamed of. Goodsir is happy.

* * *

It is on Beechey, when they have made land, and the residents of Terror and Erebus flock and mingle freely, that Goodsir makes a new observation. He does not expect Stanley to spend time out of sickbay, so insistent is he on his reclusiveness, that Goodsir is surprised to see from a distance the Head Surgeon’s form striding between the gaggle of men. Stanley is easily identifiable for his bulk, as he moves little wisps of his light hair ruffle in the breeze and the air makes his cheeks ruddy in a new way. His expression is no longer a scowl, but a frown of impatience, familiar enough to Goodsir that he does not suspect a thing, so focused is he on how Stanley’s aspect is invigorated by the change of scene. Goodsir watches with a sense of envy and pride. He could never achieve such statuesque form, such noble carriage, and yet this man, who exudes a classic, clean masculinity, in a sense belonged to him. This man who depended on no other had chosen earnest Harry Goodsir to fulfill one of the most natural and vulnerable of human needs. Goodsir owned this man in the only way Stanley would ever allow himself to be owned, he was certain.

Stanley has moved away from the crowd, he now skirts the far right shore and Goodsir spots another form approaching, soon recognizing it as that of Terror’s assistant surgeon, Dr. Alexander McDonald. Goodsir had met him briefly, found the man charming and handsome, and in the early days of their voyage would admit to a certain wish he had been placed aboard Terror instead. McDonald would likely have been an easier colleague, but Stanley had more than compensated for his faults with the way his tongue could tease Goodsir til he was near sobbing with need. Goodsir felt himself flush at the memory, but embarrassment did not prevail, only contentment. Now, Stanley had clearly emerged to meet with McDonald, but Goodsir saw the opportunity to acquaint himself better with the Scotsman as well. He began to walk towards them, intending to interject their conference, establish himself as someone McDonald might wish to converse with one-on-one later. Except he does not make it close enough for their notice, for what he observes stops him in his tracks. 

They are far from the pack, out of view, the other men only bouncing blobs of dark coats on the horizon. If the two men turned they would see him, but they do not, wrapped in whatever conversation they are having. Then it happens. McDonald takes Stanley’s hand and intertwines their fingers. Stanley allows this, here on the windy beach, independent of any sexual encounter, Doctor Stephen Samuel Stanley allows himself to be caressed. There is a hideous roiling in Goodsir’s gut, pushing at his insides, stomach acid searing and fit to burst. The two men walk in step, like lovers in a well-trod dance, McDonald swinging their hands gaily, until they stop again. They still face away from Goodsir, but he sees in torturous clarity, McDonald incline his head to press a single kiss to Stanley’s jaw, chaste in its secrecy, but those mere seconds are an explosion of a cannonball shot through Goodsir’s chest. This is not kin to the fervent kisses of his own lovemaking with Stanley. This is a familiar act. A romantic act. The set of Stanley’s shoulders makes no sign of surprise, no, instead he twists into the embrace and as he does, with McDonald’s eyes already slid shut, face open and inviting, Stanley locks eyes with Goodsir just as McDonald reaches up to press their lips together.

Goodsir runs.

* * *

He avoids Stanley as best he can and it is easy to do when illness and death rear their ugly heads and keep all medical staff occupied until they are swaying on their feet with exhaustion. The bodies are wrapped and buried. All their efforts were useless. Stanley does not leave Sickbay for the remainder of their stay on Beechey.

They pack up and set sail again. The tone is somber on Erebus and no one thinks twice if Goodsir carries an uncharacteristic melancholy with him.

But luck has never been Goodsir's steadfast friend. Stanley notices. He should have anticipated it. Should have known that a man who consorts with men must know the subtleties of coded looks and emotions, is not as obtuse as he puts on, but Goodsir has become complacent in stress. He is partaking in a moment of meditation, a quick respite of closed eyes, when he feels the hand on his cheek. He cannot help relaxing into the caress, it feels heavenly after a month of nothing, a month of aching. Then insistent lips are on his and he sighs into it as Stanley encircles his arms around his back, but as his body is shaken into wakefulness so his his mind.

“Dr. McDonald,” he protests, tentative and weak, already regretting it. He could say nothing and have Stanley again the way it was before, yet here he was, sabotaging that pleasure for morals and the honor of man he barely knew.

“What?”

“You're associated with him.” This is not the place. He should have planned this, broached this long before, not when he is curled in Stanley’s embrace. Goodsir wishes to pound at his own head.

“Yes.” Stanley concedes. “We have been associated for some time, but it is of course difficult with the two ships.”

“Does he know? About us?” He gestures lamely at his own body, acutely aware of its shortcomings, of its coarse dark hair and uncoordinated limbs. McDonald’s would be crisp and clean. Perhaps even athletic.

“It's fine, Dr. Goodsir.”

“What kind of answer is that? Of course it isn't fine, I can't come between you, if you truly love each other,” he says lamely.

“That is an audacious assumption.” Stanley’s grip tightens, no longer amorous, instead a cruel cage. Goodsir squirms, but it is no good. Stanley jerks him further forward so their noses are almost touching and it is terrible, for Goodsir still thinks Stanley looks terribly handsome in his severity. Which he suspects may be the point. He cannot hide.

“I saw you two on the beach.”

Stanley licks his lips. Goodsir whines for the uncertainty of it makes his skin crawl. Then, he sees the anger shift, pulsing veins in Stanley’s brow relax, and Goodsir is on the receiving end of a predatory grin. “You cannot have seen much. But I’ll tell you what you missed. Yes, we are lovers, Mr. Goodsir, more than you and I. Is that what you were wondering? Did you imagine what our fucking entails? Or more? Perhaps you are with us, and Dr. McDonald, my Alexander, with his perfect cock filling you up, hm? He’d be gentle at first, he’s too much of a darling for his own good, but I wouldn’t be gentle as I fucked  _ him _ , and he in turn he fucked you. There you’d be, stuck at the end of our congress and falling apart, because you’d love it so much. Little harlot that you are.”

Goodsir had not imagined it, but presented in such vivid detail his head swims, he can feel himself hardening at Stanley’s words. One of the doctor’s hands has snaked down to press against his groin, massaging just the way he likes it, urging him to further arousal.

“No!” he shoves hard. Stanley releases and he falls back against the wall, a hand out in defense. Stanley looks at him with disdain. Unimpressed. Unbothered. 

“You-you-,” Goodsir stutters, “you cannot do this.”

He cannot let Stanley continue his fondling any further or all logical protests would be annihilated by the call of the flesh. He buries his head in his hands.

“This isn’t right.”

“You are missing the point. We are here on Erebus and Dr. McDonald,”  _ your Alexander, Goodsir’s mind blares, _ “is far off. He would not begrudge me taking my pleasure in any way I see fit.”

“That’s what I am to you then? Just a way of taking pleasure!” Goodsir can hear his voice pitch higher. Hysteria transforms him into a pathetic, raving thing. He is revolted at himself. Stanley reaches out towards him and Goodsir flinches away leaving Stanley’s fingers twitching at empty air.

“You are terrifically distressed. This will not do well for your health.”

“No, I don’t think any of this will do well for my health. None of it. I have to go. G-goodnight, Dr. Stanley.” A paltry play at politeness as he staggers past. There is no reply and he cannot bear to look up, to see whatever is on Stanley’s face, leaves bearing blinders of misery and speeds towards his berth.

Once he is laid down, Goodsir still feels like a live wire and he cannot stop himself from shoving a hand down his smalls, and tugging himself to unsatisfactory completion, whining pitifully into the cold air. He could have Stanley on top of him at this very moment, could have more than his hand, a cock to fill him up and make him forget all his wretched morals. Stanley is a fire, set to sear, but Goodsir cannot help longing for his warmth.

* * *

Stanley does not ask anything of him again. There are no overtures of intimacy and soon Goodsir forgets the sickbay’s casual press of hands or clothed bodies that were precursors to a greater union. They work together, but whatever spark there was, might be, is always quickly flooded by the thought of McDonald with his warm, trusting smile. They are nothing to each other. Goodsir knows this. Goodsir accepts this.

When Goodsir comes to find Stanley to ask about the autopsy for David Young, it is the first time in months he has entered Stanley’s quarters. He remains by the door, a secure distance to ward off memories of any ecstasies. Stanley avoids his gaze. Only at Goodsir’s insistence does he turn his head as he reiterates his position. He has never seen the man look so worn. Bags under his eyes are accentuated by the dim light. His pale skin makes him look spectral, not in the way of the malevolent spirit, but of the lost, those doomed to walk forever with no purpose. Goodsir has an aching desire to reach out to him, to kiss some of that weariness away, but he balks for he has no practice at it, and the continuation of his grave error, even in consolation, would be graceless. _Leave me,_ Stanley tacitly begs. So Goodsir does.

* * *

The next time Goodsir sees McDonald it is over the heaving body of a dying Inuit man and there are no thoughts of what they have unknowingly shared, only the urge to save this man, and he tries, but he cannot. Goodsir will hold this with him for as long as he lives: the dying burbles another reminder of the fallibility of medicine or how far there is yet to go, for science, for him. Stanley had scoffed. Called him naive. Better to see to the living than obsess over the dead. Goodsir understands this philosophy, logically, but it is not a comfort.

Then he is back on Terror and everything is eerily slow. The ship’s relative emptiness frightens, and he sticks to the sickbay to avoid the echoing corridors and their morose inhabitants. The company is better as well, for there is McDonald, all kind eyes and easy camaraderie. He listens to Goodsir with sincerity, asks questions of his linguistic progress with Silna, of Goodsir’s life back in Scotland, promises to visit Surgeon’s Hall again when they return. McDonald tells Goodsir of numerous case studies picked to appeal to Goodsir’s own interests, and of his own adventures across the seas, with care to recount the specific flora and fauna to populate Goodsir’s imagination. And although it was all over a year ago, the whole ordeal with Stanley comes crashing to the forefront of Goodsir’s mind.

He wonders if Stanley has said anything. Doubts it. For how could McDonald look at him with such misplaced fondness if he knew the truth? Goodsir hurts not only for his respect for Dr. McDonald, but his own feeble pride. Cheeks aflame he recalls how shamelessly he fought not just to be an object of lust, but to be given affection. Had Stanley felt pressed? Had Stanley an internal war with his loyalty to his partner and Goodsir’s aggressive, needy, infantile overtures? Certainly, he would not have wanted to commit acts of adultery had Goodsir not thrown himself at his feet. The added cruelty of it was that Goodsir thought himself loved only to be exposed as a mere dalliance. No one in their dysfunctional menage could emerge with their dignity intact.

He will tell McDonald. The man who looked at him with sweet cheer did not deserve to be the fool of cuckoldry. This man called Goodsir a doctor with the same breath one said friend. Stanley could call him pet, Harry even in the throes of passion, but never Doctor. If McDonald called him Harry too, if that name could be one of friendship and not simply lust, that might break some of the strings across his heart.

For despite the abiding anger Goodsir knows he still loves Stanley. It is a terrible thing.

* * *

He dithers, but in the end, the time of confrontation is chosen for him. McDonald is leaning roguishly against the table, a paper in his hand, and bearing an expression of fondness that renders him near visibly glowing.

“What is that you’re reading?” Goodsir asks.

“A letter from Erebus.”

“Oh, you get many I imagine,” he says, heart working overtime to appear nonchalant. “I know you and Dr. Stanley are friendly.”

“To what extent do you know these things?” McDonald asks, raising an eyebrow.

“More than I should,” he admits, bows his head, inhales deeply. He runs through all the lines he had practiced. Each sounds woefully unsuitable as a precursor to the agony he knows he will inflict. Goodsir detests causing pain and now he must do it. He opens his mouth in readiness to confess his sins, except he is startled by McDonald tugging him forward by the edge of his coat. Frozen in the Scotsman’s personal space his breath is knocked from him, caught instead by the crisp focus of McDonald’s artful curl of gleaming hair, the crinkle of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and concave dimples set into his square face. McDonald massages at Goodsir’s hip and a gentle touch strokes his jaw.

“You’re a pretty thing,” he says. Goodsir squeaks and McDonald chuckles. “I can see why Stephen likes you.”

“Dr. Stanley, you mean, yes. I-um-he is tolerant of my foibles.”

“Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you, Doctor. No matter how much I’m sure people have tried to convince you otherwise. Stephen has told me in . . . significant detail how well you’ve pleased him. I’d take pride in that.”

The words might be innocent on their own, but in their current position the euphemism is clear and Realization dawns. McDonald had known, for an indeterminable amount of time, of what occurred on Erebus. Stanley’s bedding of Goodsir was not an indiscretion, but an act sanctioned by his long distance lover, Goodsir’s wantonness likely slipped between lines of complaint Fitzjames’ showy obsequiousness or rankling at the AB’s rowdiness or a scathing opinion on his last read book. Goodsir was a pleasant note in Stanley’s life, to be mentioned to his lover in confidence, not some distasteful secret. The wash of both embarrassment and relief is stunning.

“I thought I’d done a terrible thing.”

“No, darling, never. How can I begrudge him wanting you. When I also find,” and McDonald leans in against Goodsir’s ear, slips a hand around to untuck his shirt tails and scratch up Goodsir’s back with electrifying results, “you quite irresistible.”

McDonald’s kisses are playful and encouraging, coaxing Goodsir’s tongue against his own, drawing him into the haze of lust with delicious dexterity. When they part a trail of saliva follows and Goodsir breaks it with his fingertips and presses them to his own lips in wonder. Goodsir believes he might be dreaming, for it cannot be this simple, that the two men he had wronged could both forgive  _ and _ desire him. It was the stuff of bodice rippers and he was no heavy-breasted maiden. 

At Goodsir’s pause McDonald bites his lip.

“Are you thinking of him? It’s alright. You’ll be with him soon.”

“No, I don’t-I wish to think of you. It is just . . . different. I am enjoying myself.” Then more confidently. “Please touch me.”

So McDonald does, he lays Goodsir out on the table, lets his hands rove along the angles and planes of Gooodsir’s body as he nurses a pulse point with hot mouth until Goodsir is quaking with need, rutting up in the crook of McDonald’s groin, and McDonald finds his pleasure in the same way. They shift and jerk together, until they gasp their climax into each other’s mouths, lungs work in unison, sex uniting them as one heaving body. Afterwards, McDonald remains on top of him, like a mother upon her young, and they take comfort in the warmth of each other’s bodies, even through many layers. It is deathly cold outside.

“A treasure, lovely, a delight. Let’s do this again soon,” McDonald says, strokes his shoulder, as Goodsir nuzzles into the crook of his arm. “Would you like that, my dear? Perhaps one day Stephen can join us.”

Goodsir can only sigh his approval. McDonald kisses the top of his head.

* * *

With Silna gone there is no reason to remain on Terror and as much as he has grown fond of McDonald, with his funny stories and sweet kisses, Goodsir knows he must go. There is his hypothesis of the tins to be investigated. When he thinks of the worst outcome it is as if there is a stone in his gut, stinking like the putrid food, and it makes him nauseous.

McDonald can sense his uneasiness, squeezes his hand.

“Take heart.”

“I shall miss you.”

“You have other friends. And one who I suspect misses you more than he will ever admit. You be good to Stephen, you hear?” McDonald shakes his head, grins, eyes bright and playful, and Goodsir already keenly feels the ache of their parting. “Why do I bother to ask, I’m certain you will be. Too much good in you. You’ll do right by us, I know you will.”

“I am trying,” he says and thinks of Jacko. Then the call comes and Goodsir is once again on the cold, dark ice.

**Author's Note:**

> woof. If you enjoyed this fic, any comments or kudos are appreciated! It was quite difficult for me to write so thank you very much for dedicating the time to read it. Means a lot!
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines) or Tumblr.


End file.
